


Looking at it, the sunrise reads of flame and smoke.

by GenerallyGentle



Category: D&D (Base fandom/concept used), Original Work
Genre: Feat: A very flammable caravan and Petkoris' continued internal screaming regarding life, Irresponsible use of a short sword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenerallyGentle/pseuds/GenerallyGentle
Summary: In which a traveling "merchant" is caught off gaurd, a caravan is burned to the ground, and a mysterious creature is slain in a moment of panic.





	Looking at it, the sunrise reads of flame and smoke.

Everything was quiet.  
Everything was clear.  
Everything was okay.

Petkoris’ steps tap one in front of the other along the foot-carved trail of the branch ahead.  
The night is near silent, allowing the soft creaking of caravan wheels to over-take his ample thoughts and drive them out as his hands further settle on the handles at his either side.

Clear and quiet nights out on the road weren’t commonplace and he was quick to take advantage of such a situation; silence and open skies meant safer travel for the aware.

… To bad he had never been the best at perception, and he failed to notice anything until the flame bolt was whizzing past his head and colliding with the bark just besides him.  
And then, tossing perception to the wind, everything exploded into action.

He whipped to the side in an instinctual search for the source of the supposed attack, only to drop his caravan handles as body twisted around and his eyes landed on a large figure just handful of paces away, no doubt to much to cover in a move had he been focused on close combat at the moment.  
His hands found the short sword hilt at his hip, fumbling briefly with the grip before retrieving it and-  
He’s flinging the sword before he can put a conscious thought into it and his brain doesn’t quite catch up until the creature is buckling and slamming to the ground, lodging the sword farther than it had already been inside its skull and falling still.

There is no moment of pause between the attack and throwing himself into the side of the caravan, knowing already it was far too late to save the burning mass of canvas and wood, jumping into the now open side of the cabin as the top popped open on impact with the branch.  
While he hears and processes the approaching footsteps he makes no mind of them as he prepares a mental plan of attack, gathering whatever supplies he can tuck into a loosely tied flat of fabric and fling out of reach of the flames.

 

Feet planted firmly on solid ground he is able to fully gather the context of the situation in the form of a figure approaching the wreckage from just beyond the fallen creature at his feet.  
Someone bearing a staff and steadied crossbow.  
Someone who was about to answer for what the ever-loving hell had just fallen upon him in those last few moment of awareness and world-ending fire.


End file.
